


la mordidita

by ferrousone



Category: A Royal Affair (2012), Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky (2009), Hannibal (TV), Hysteria (2011), The Salvation (2014)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Cock Worship, F/F, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Medical Inaccuracies, Oral Knotting, Period-Typical Sexism, Rough Sex, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-19 14:56:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9446354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferrousone/pseuds/ferrousone
Summary: Doctor Mortimer Granville, hailed one of the faces of London’s modern medicine by bothThe Daily TelegraphandThe Times—quite a feat for an omega—was merely married to his wife to cover for their same proclivity: the same gender.It is of no surprise to Charlotte that three alphas catch his eye; all at the same time.





	1. veni, vidi, veni iterum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HotSauce418](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HotSauce418/gifts).



> please, please, _please_ heed the tags, especially as homophobia/sexism are really sensitive subjects to deal with. if there is anything you believe i handled incorrectly please let me know! 
> 
> that aside, this au thingy has been cooking up in my brain for a few days now (i honestly just love mortimer in hysteria and believe he should be showered in love from hunky men) and thought: what better to do than write this? especially since all the hannigram i've been writing caused me to need a bit of a palate cleanser. i also am trying to write in as many side characters from the four movies as i can (madelaine is from salvation, maria is from royal affair, etc.) so the character tags will change!
> 
> also, disclaimer: i have never ever seen the salvation so i am writing it from what the wikipedia page / trailer told me (gruff and aloof and cold due to trauma but a soft man once he lets you in), so honestly, let me know if i fucked up in anyway.
> 
> also thank you to hotsauce for being so encouraging and helpful in deciding what the hell to do (in this case, 3 men) this is dedicated to you!
> 
> this is unbeta'd btw so there are bound to be mistakes, but point 'em out to me if you see them!!

Married life did not suit Mortimer; it wasn’t because of his status as an omega, or the fact that in London’s society he was dependent on his wife for both social status and wealth, but because of who _he_ was.

Doctor Mortimer Granville, hailed one of the faces of London’s modern medicine by both _The Daily Telegraph_ and _The Times_ —quite a feat for an omega—was merely married to his wife to cover for their same proclivity: the same gender.

Charlotte was brash and bold in her desires, delighting in public displays of affection with her girlfriend, Fanny. Mortimer, however, was shafted into the position of maintaining an air of aloofness with other men, as dictated by society. He had gotten close to men before, though; in his youth when aided by a cherubic face and small frame he had managed to convince a few alphas that he was a woman—with the help evergreen bugloss on his cheeks and his own signature mix of soot and beeswax on his eyelashes.

From where he sat, he rubbed thin fingers at his temples, easing the headache that threatened to build. From where she sat, legs kicked over the arm of her fainting chair and nose buried within one of his many medical journals, Charlotte painted a regal picture of an alpha woman in her prime; carefree and powerful. As if noticing his scrutiny, she looked up at him over the top of her book, blue eyes sparkling with her own brand of mischief. 

“What is it, dearest?” The endearment had Mortimer’s teeth on edge.

He could tell her the truth, he figured; strip himself bare before her—emotionally, of course, the one and only time they had tried _that_ it ended up with Charlotte holding him against his chest as he took great, racking sobs. 

“I am merely anxious for tomorrow’s appointments,” he lied, choosing to ignore the frown that twisted at her lips in favour of studying the document before him.

“My father sent you those cases, didn’t he? Something about an alpha’s _own_ brand of hysteria.”

“Yes, he believes that most alphas have been merely suppressing these urges, and with the new, provocative way omegas act now it is harder to control these,” he paused and licked his lips, “ _impulses_.”

Charlotte scoffed, shutting the journal and placing it in her lip. “It is only us here, Mortimer, you can tell me what you really think.”

Emboldened by his pseudo-alpha’s words, he met her eyes. “Alright,” he willed his voice to stop shaking, “I think that this recent ‘emergence’ of these alpha cases is due to the discriminatory views society has pertaining to omegas. We are, of course, seen as weaker sex and are expected to be more prone to our base animal instincts, not our proud and strong alpha partners. And God forbid we discuss a beta’s view on this, they are just as crude and discourteous to us as alphas are.”

Charlotte blinked, and righted herself onto her bottom, eyes owlish as she blinked at the shaking, red-faced omega. “I understand what you mean, I see it with all of the parents who come to our settlement house.”

All the fight drained out of him, and he curled in on himself. “I think I will retire early, Charlotte. Please do not take supper alone, invite Fanny in my place.”

Charlotte’s face softened and she nodded; in a gesture of her unique benevolence, she did not pursue him, physically or verbally, as he retreated to their shared bedroom. 

He felt frustrated with himself, for both displaying his weakness in front of Charlotte, as well as slandering her primary gender. He sighed, and carefully unbuttoned his finery, easing himself out of the soft fabrics. He figured it was better with his _wife_ , whom he trusted and loved like a dear sister, than with his patients in their upcoming appointments. 

With a heavy heart, and an exquisitely soft night gown, Mortimer slept.

 

\--

 

Charlotte was no stranger to her husband’s strangeness; the little man oozed _other_ from every well cared for pore. Whether it was his status as both an omega and a doctor, or the way his eyes lingered on any alpha man he crossed paths with—regardless of her being there or not—she was used to his flight behaviour and odd moods. 

She wasn’t used to the worry that rolled off him in waves and stunk up their dining room. From where he sat, directly across from her and scented with the finest oils from her father’s recent trip to the colonies, he looked like he was about to vibrate out of his skin.

He was usually a near milky pale, both due to his upper class status as well as the hours spent pouring over medical journals and texts (the complexity of which always sent Charlotte into a frustration-induced rut that involved many acrobatic positions and Fanny to subdue), but this level of pallor from him was sickly. The sight of sweat beading at her forehead didn’t help to ease her worry for him; a part of her wondered if he was going into his heat, but he never disclosed his cycles with her, or even if he was on suppressants or not.

Her gut flipped and she steeled her features. She had to do something.

“Are you alright Mortimer? You look sick.”

He jerked in his seat, sending the bit of strawberry on his fork flying across the room to land on their lace curtains. Charlotte fought the urge to purse her lips. 

“Of course! I am merely nervous. None of my patients have ever been alphas, nor have I ever really been alone in a small room with an alpha during their hysteria before.”

“Do you want me to go with you then? I can play the part of hired muscle quite convincingly; I was in prison, you know.”

Mortimer laughed at that, and Charlotte smiled at the sight.

“While I would love to have you along with me, I think it would create more suspicion than you’re not being there.” 

“How do you mean?”

“We are seen as a bonded married couple, so there should be no problem in a bonded omega being with an unbonded alpha, whether they are in a rut or not.”

“I see your reasoning, darling, I truly do, but I do not care for what people will think. I am asking what _you_ want.”

Mortimer’s eyes narrowed in thought, and he nodded at her words. 

“I would like you to remain here, especially as you have midday tea with Emily planned.”

“Then here I shall stay,” she murmured, voice warm and full of affection. “But, do not hesitate to call for me if you need me.”

“Of course.”

Mortimer folded his napkin and placed it beside his plate and rose, smoothing a hand over the lines on his slacks before rounding the table and placing a soft kiss on her cheek. 

“I shall see you tonight, please give Emily my regards.”

“Of course, darling. Have a nice day.”

She placed her own cutlery down, listening to this sound of his shoes click smartly on the marble floors of their hallways until they faded out of earshot. She released a sigh, before calling for her maid to summon a carriage so she could ride into the slums, and hopefully retrieve Fanny for a mid-morning romp. 

 

\--

 

His walk from his estate to his office was a blessed one; the sharp cold air did wonders to soothe the heat that fanned beneath his skin, leaking into every fiber of his being, and the familiar smell of the industrial sect's fumes and the early morning market wafted high into the air. The peace, however fleeting, was one he readily welcomed due to it's relatively fleeting nature. When one dealt with hysterics in any gender, it was no delicate matter. He has seen the effects first with his mother—after the death of his father, she had been sent into a stress-induced heat that almost no doctor could deal with, fever running high enough to cause permanent brain damage—and now with his patients. 

Many times omegas in hysterics wouldn't even let a doctor treat them for fear of being unwilling mated or even turned of to a sanatorium; even now cases of medical negligence of alpha doctors forcibly taking their patients flitted around the upper houses of London's court system. 

As if on cue, the calm he had so carefully cultivated was broken; he had barely opened the door to his clinic, head in the clouds with thoughts for his appointments, before he was accosted. 

“Dr. Granville! Thank Heavens you are here!” Mortimer looked up in time to catch sight of Madelaine, his clinic’s nurse, bustling over to him. 

“Nurse Delarue, whatever is the matter?”

She let out a huff, and straightened her back to stand at her full height. Mortimer chose to ignore the beta’s posturing in favour of taking in her disheveled appearance. 

“Your nine a.m. is here and _quite_ annoyed at the delay.”

Mortimer scrunched his face up, and dug into his coat and retrieve his pocket watch, flipping it open with practiced ease. “It is barely even half past eight. Why is he even here?”

Madelaine shrugged her thin shoulders. “He wouldn’t tell me, just told me to fetch the doctor as soon as I could. Hopefully he will point his ire to you instead of me.”

“Thank you, Nurse Delarue, please see to our other patients for the time being.”

Madelaine curtseyed before turning on her heel and stalked off, leaving him to stare after her dumbly before his body kicked into life and went to his office. He sent a prayer up for his late mother, who—despite his vehemence and hurled insults had sent him to one of London’s top omegan learning centers—had given him the tools to appease even the most unruly of alphas. 

He swallowed drily and raised his head high, ignoring the way Nurse Maria’s stern gaze followed him as he all but _ran_ into his office. He shut the door behind him with a harsher-than-necessary slam, and let out a sigh.

“There you are,” a gruff voice directly to his right caused Mortimer to drop his briefcase and all but plaster himself to the bookcase lining the wall, “I was starting to think you would never show up.”

Mortimer took a calming breath, willing the fury that rose down. “Of course, Mr. Jensen, I am very sorry to have made you wait.” 

“I hope you do not make a pattern of this,” the man huffed, eyes flashing with something Mortimer refused to put a name to. 

With all the grace he could muster, Mortimer bent at the waist to retrieve his briefcase before circling his desk to take his seat. He gestured for Mr. Jensen to take that seat across from him; the man took it with a look of relative unease, and crossed his arms over his chest. Mortimer busied himself with retrieving his patient file from his briefcase and thumbing through it quickly.

 _Jon Jensen, mid to late 40's—patient threatened violence upon being asked, previously bonded alpha—mate and child died in his presence, apparent psychological damage as well as physical due to disruptive and violent ruts. Diagnosis of alpha hysteria applies, proceed with treatment as detailed._ Mortimer nodded to himself, eyes skimming over the lines of text detailing his treatment, as well as his vital signs Dr. Dalrymple had measured in his office; despite the suffocating text, the tight and elegant handwriting of his father-in-law like a balm to his wild nerves. 

“Dr. Dalrymple sent your file to me as he labelled you with alpha hysteria, is that correct Mr. Jensen?” 

“You already know, so why ask me? And I rather you call me Jon, doctor.”

“Certainly. Dr. Dalrymple said you were experiencing increasing violent ruts, is there any reason that may be?”

“I’d guess it was due to the murder of my wife and son,” Jon spat, eyes shining suspiciously in the morning light.

“Oh, my condolences,” Mortimer murmured, dropping his gaze from the man.

“Don’t.” The single word had Mortimer fighting against the need to bare his neck and plead with the alpha for forgiveness. “I do not need your pity.”

“Mr. Jensen, alpha hysterics—just like its omegan counterpart—are treated with both physical and psychological therapy; I am not licensed in psychological medicine, so I shall direct you to one of my peers, Dr. Lecter. You two will get along quite fine, I believe," his voice remained even despite the rising panic he felt. " With that being said, both physical and mental trauma affect the mating cycles of alpha and omega alike. I would like to just do another checkup of my own, if you'd allow it.”

Jon said nothing, choosing instead to unbutton his vest and hang it on the back of his chair. Mortimer cleared his throat, and disregarded the heat pooling low in his gut at the sight of the alpha’s broad chest; God, the shirt practically _strained_ against his muscled chest and middle.

“It won’t be me personally, sir, let me call for a nurse.”

“Will the procedure be done by you?”

“If that will bother you I can send you to another doctor specialising in hysteric medicine,” Mortimer said blandly, the frisson of desire disappeared as soon as it appeared due to the alpha’s rudeness. 

Jon smiled, the movement feral and unkind. “It won’t be a problem for now.”

 _Alphas,_ he thought, inwardly rolling his eyes at the display, _it was always the attractive ones that were the most annoying._

 

\--

 

Mortimer had managed to keep his cool despite the very obvious presence of alpha pheromones saturating the air of the exam room—he shuddered to think how his office would smell now that fear had released its dimming stranglehold on his senses. He still had no idea how Jon managed to even pump out this much during a rut, let alone pre-rut; Mortimer had had to air the room out _twice_ to keep the slick that threatened to run down his thighs in check.

His poorly directed—and, quite frankly, inappropriate—arousal had _amplified_ at the sight of the threads of Jon’s control slipping within the sound-proofed exam room. Sweat was falling off his body in rivulets, and he had shed his tunic to expose his muscled torso, much to Mortimer’s chagrin.

“Your heart rate and breathing are perfectly fine, and your temperature is average for an alpha in pre-rut,” Mortimer listed, voice dull as he filled out the medical chart. “If you are amicable to it, I can start treatment now to help with your pre-rut symptoms.”

“Please.” Mortimer suppressed a smirk at the sound of the desperation in his voice; it seemed that Jon had shed his alpha bravado along with his shirt.

“Of course, now just lie back, and I will adjust the recline to make sure you are comfortable.”

Mortimer decidedly kept to his to the floor as he did so, but his treacherous brain readily conjured the image of Jon’s muscles rippling with the movement of stile, splat, and crest rail as it moved his form to accommodate for the procedure.

“How long will it take?” Jon’s voice sounded more like a billow of smoke than vocal cord vibration. 

“It depends on the alpha, but it usually takes an hour for the knot to take and fully deflate.”

Mortimer left his station by Jon’s side to wheel over the Omegan Breeding Sleeve, or the OBS as Dr. Dalrymple had taken to calling it. It was yet another one of Lord Edmund’s inventions that Mortimer had jury-rigged to help with his treatments of hysteria; unlike the machine that simulated the knot and fucking an alpha would deliver to an omega, the OBS was created to provide the illusion the alpha was fucking a willing omega during their heat.

Mortimer watched Jon wince at the sight of the contraption; more so, Mortimer watched the movement of his Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“If you would please get your penis out so we may start.” 

Jon blinked at him, eyes glazed from a dizzying concoction of breeding hormones Mortimer was all too familiar with, and groped along his slacks for the seam. 

“I don’t think I can.”

“Get your penis out?”

“Yes, I cannot get my dick out.”

Mortimer winced at his word choice. “Do you need me to help you get your—”

“Dick out?”

“Yes, that.”

“Doctor, I need you to do it,” he rasped.

 _This must be his punishment_ , Mortimer reasoned, _for being in an unfaithful marriage_. But he had sworn an oath as a doctor to do no harm to his patients, and with shaking hands he undid the buttons on the front of his pants. Jon grunted his appreciation as Mortimer reached in and took his half-hard dick out. 

“The sensation might be weird at first, but it quickly gets pleasurable,” Mortimer ground out, desperately ignoring the first drop of slick that escaped his clenched cheeks.

Mortimer released Jon’s dick, watching with rapt attention as it twitched, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to feel it stuffed in his mouth, to take him as deep as he could until he choked and tears blurred his vision.

“You going to look at it all day or put me into that machine?” Jon mused, the same feral grin from before plastering itself onto his face at the sight of the pink on his cheeks. 

“I ought to turn you over to another doctor.”

“But you won’t.”

The cockiness in his voice had Mortimer’s frayed nerves on edge, and he all but stuffed Jon’s dick into the sleeve before jamming the on switch. Jon jackknifed off the table in response, mouth open in a silent cry as the sleeve coaxed his cock into its full hardness in preparation to milk him dry.

“I will just be at the desk over here filling in your medical paperwork, do not hesitate to call if you need me,” Mortimer patted his shoulder, and moved away despite every nerve in his body telling him to strip down and present for the man.

Jon muttered something in reply, the words lost to the rough moan that tore from his throat and the sound of the metal supports in the table grinding together as he thrust up into the sleeve.

Mortimer just hoped the hour would go by quickly.

 

\--

 

Much to his surprise, Jon had lasted a solid hour without so much as even forming a knot. Despite the strangled cries and cum coating his hips and legs from where it spilled from the sleeve, he remained as hard as ever to the point of over-stimulation judging by his pained noises. Mortimer was running out of paperwork to fill out, going as far back as a few _months_ to keep his attention off the alpha.

“I need you, Granville, please. Can fucking smell you from here; you’re ready to be bred.”

Mortimer loosened his tie, wincing as it unstuck from his sweat-soaked skin, before primly turning back to the paper in front of him; the words blended together and went out of focus, and he struggled to keep his face unaffected. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Anyone a mile away can smell you’re unmated,” he rasped, eyes burning as they held his gaze. “That mark and cheap cologne you wear are cheap imitations of the real thing.”

Mortimer squawked from where he sat, indignant to the core in the face of the truth. “I am mated to my wife, Lady Charlotte Dalrymple, the daughter of the physician that referred you to me.”

“Any good mate would not let their omega out during their heat.”

A cold stab of fear nestled at the base of his skull, whether at the bold accusation or the implication in his words, Mortimer did not know. “You know nothing of my wife and I. How dare you insinuate she is a bad mate?”

“I can smell you dripping from here. Now be a good doctor and _help_ me.”

Mortimer fiddled with the buttons on his vest, weighing his options. On the one hand, Jon had been nothing but vaguely condescending and had the audacity to insinuate he was late to an appointment as well as unravel his web of lies surrounding his unmated status; on the other, Jon was clearly in pain and needed help. He was also stunningly attractive and Mortimer wanted to do nothing less than climb him like a damn tree.

The charade of control and professionalism was slowly coming to an end.

He poured over the papers in front of him, hoping somewhere in their murky depths he might find the appropriate answer. Finding none, he let out a soft curse, and stripped off his trousers; the simple movement took a great effort as the seat of them were completely soaked through with slick. He didn’t dare look at his chair, sure it was ruined and stained beyond fixing. 

“That’s it,” Jon cooed, large hand ripping off the sleeve of his cock; it stood angry and red against his stomach, the head just barely peeking out of the foreskin and Mortimer practically salivated at the sight. “Take my knot like a good boy.”

He practically tripped over himself in his haste to get to Jon, lids fluttering with the scent of him—masculine and strong, just the right balance of sandalwood and smoke—high on the air. He let out a low whine as he drew close enough, the scent of the cum-soaked sleeve blending with Jon’s natural scent to form a thick cloud of _alpha, mate, home_. 

It was like a drug, and Mortimer found himself gulping down large lungful’s of air just to savour it over and over again. Jon’s searching hand grabbed him by his curls and pulled him forward, causing him to stumble and fall face first into Jon’s lap. The alpha growled in response, and tugged him up to standing, sending pain zinging down his spine. 

“Not your mouth.”

It was a command, not a suggestion, and Mortimer scrambled to comply. He swung a leg over Jon’s hips, smiling when he felt the hand in his hair move to encompass his waist. He felt another settle on his ass, squeezing his soaked left cheek.

“You’re dripping, baby. Your cunt is so greedy for me, huh?”

“God, _yes_ ,” Mortimer groaned, hips stuttering when Jon’s fingers dipped between and pressed against his weeping hole. 

He watched as Jon brought the slick-shiny finger to his lips and lick it clean; what little restrain and resistance in him broke at the sight, and he fumbled to grab Jon’s cock by the base and press it against his hole. Jon, seemingly getting with the program, used both hands to grasp his hips and press him down in a brutal thrust.

Pain coloured his vision and he let out a broken cry as he was practically split in half; he felt even thicker and bigger than he looked, and it had air struggling to entire his burning lungs. Under him, he could feel Jon pumping his hips in an unforgiving rhythm, sending him jostling in his lap with each wet _slap_ against his ass.

He should feel embarrassed and ashamed at this display, should have his fucking medical license revoked, but Mortimer couldn’t bring himself to care as Jon’s cockhead dragged painfully against his prostrate. His eyes stung as both sweat dripped into them and tears gathered; what little vision he had was reduced to smudged figures and bright colours.

“Please, Jon, knot me, _pleasepleaseplease_ ,” he all but sobbed, tears falling freely now. “I need it, breed me and knot me, I’ll die if you don’t.”

“Easy,” Jon soothed, dick practically punching the air from him. “I’m close, that fucking machine did most of the work.”

Dimly, Mortimer was impressed with Jon’s ability to string together a sentence, but the thought was pushed out when Jon wrapped a large hand around his dick and pumped it in time with the snap of his hips. Mortimer was pretty sure he was drooling at this point, everything was just a condensed point of wetness, pleasure, and harsh breathing; it was driving him mad, he felt like he was in the center of the sun and Jon’s dick in him the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Oh, fuck.” He was dizzy with desire, not brain not even able to process if it was him or Jon who uttered it.

He felt it then, the start of Jon’s impressive knot catching at the rim of his asshole, and that was it, the show was over; every muscle in his body tensed into a singularity of pure, liquid pleasure and he was cumming all over his stomach and Jon’s hand. 

Jon thrust once, twice, and his knot _finally_ popped and caught on his rim, effectively locking them together. Mortimer slumped against his chest, uncaring to how Jon’s sweaty chest hair stuck to his equally sweaty face as their breathing slowed together.

“We’ll be stuck like this for a while,” Mortimer bemoaned.

“I’ve had worse,” was all Jon murmured, rubbing a large hand over Mortimer’s back, who used his last shreds of dignity to not purr at the comforting gesture. It wasn't a gesture of love or even kindness; it was ingrained in an alpha to soothe whatever omega they had used during their rut, yet it had Mortimer's heart stuttering within his breast. “But next time no damn machine.”

Mortimer swallowed thickly at that, choosing instead to close his eyes instead of confront what Jon meant by ‘next time’.


	2. venerari

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more research went into this for beauty products and such, also stravinsky's works (i vaguely know of them for my own interest in classical music but i had to know more). and thank you bundles to saucey for listening to me rant, rave, and just generally being a dear friend throughout this process.
> 
> cw includes very unsubtle dom/sub, minor boot worship, teases of oral knotting (i couldn't go through with it, my bad), and general filth. 
> 
> this is super unbeta'd and its super late where i am so please point out any mistakes if you see any
> 
> edit 08/02/17 : some mistakes fixed + wording fixed

To say their separation after Jon’s knot had deflated was awkward would be like calling Kölner Dom little; Jon had released Mortimer as if his very touch burned his skin and quickly tucked himself back into his pants. He was left standing and watching while the alpha carefully put each piece of sweat, slick and even cum soaked clothing back on, and he wanted to do nothing short of melt into the floor.

Jon finally turned, adjusting the scarf around his neck, and raised a brow at him. “Are you not going to put your trousers back on? Or is this how London doctors usually dress?”

Mortimer flushed and made his way over to the examination room’s desk on wobbly legs. Jon was thankfully silent as he watched Mortimer dig through a small cabinet on the side and retrieved a fresh pair of trousers to wear and hurriedly tugged them up his lean legs.

“You make a habit of keeping extra pairs of clothing in here?” The hardness that usually tinged his words was nowhere to be found, instead replaced by a foreign softness that had Mortimer’s heart stuttering in his breast.

“Some omegas require them after a session, as they are practically oversensitive to some fabrics. As well, my heat can sometimes strike while I am at work when I am not prepared, so I need the change of clothes.” Mortimer blinked and pressed a hand to his forehead. “I don’t know why I just told you that.”

“Post breeding hormones usually loosen lips,” Jon shrugged, “at least I think so. I am not a doctor.”

“You are right; the release of oxytocin in both the omega and the alpha’s bloodstream allows for a quick and strong bond to be formed post coital, if that is what the alpha wants.”

“And what if the omega doesn’t want to bond?”

Mortimer let out a dark chuckle and shook his head. “You will find, Mr. Jensen, it doesn’t matter what an omega wants.”

Jon screwed up his face and opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, before deciding against it and shutting his mouth. 

“I will see you next week at the same time.” The amount of hope in his voice had Mortimer’s gut dropping.

“I do not decide my appointments, Nurse Delarue does. I would suggest asking her before you pen it on your calendar.” 

“But, I—”

“Mr. Jensen, for your sake as well as mine I suggest you leave; with the effects of both of our hormones going into overdrive it would likely form a premature bond that neither of us would want to deal with reversing,” at the blank look on Jon’s face, Mortimer thinned his lips. “The longer you prolong this goodbye the harder it will be to leave. If you’d be as kind as to close the door on your way out.”

It was as much as a dismissal as Jon would get from him, and it caused the air around them both to thicken with the angry rolling off of the man. 

“This isn’t over.”

Mortimer swallowed. “Goodbye, Mr. Jensen.”

“Dr. Granville.” The venomous tone had Mortimer flinching, but he refused to back down.

The resounding slam of the door shutting had him going boneless against his desk, shaking arms the only thing from keeping up from outright collapsing. The small, selfish side of him wanted to spend the day holed up in the exam room, surrounded by the scent of their coupling. The larger, responsible side of him knew he would have to disinfect and properly air out the room and carry on with his patients and appointments.

With nary a groan to be heard, Mortimer returned to the mindset of Doctor Granville and got to work.

 

\--

 

The estate was a hush when Mortimer returned. He had half hoped Charlotte would wait up for him like she usually did so they could carry out their nightly routines together.

(She would invite him into their shared washing room, and they take turns soaping each other up with rich, scented bars of soap and chatting about their day; Charlotte’s fingers were gifted to her by God Herself, and Mortimer nightly worshipped her for the effectiveness at which she shampooed and conditioned his hair. 

Afterwards, clean and wrapped in the finest towels they could afford, they would rub _Crème Céleste_ into their skin and brush their teeth side by side, before retiring to their bed to sleep.)

He didn’t fault her, though, knowing full well it was late in the evening and as much as Charlotte protested and said their lives—and as a result, their schedules—were now ‘joined’, she was under no obligation to do so. 

With a sigh, he travelled past their foyer into the darkened living room, careful not to track mud into the home—lest he receive another stern lecture from their housekeeper, a hard-faced, no nonsense lady by the name of Misia.

His foot clipped the leg of Charlotte’s fainting chair, and he let out a soft swear as he saw her face poke up and stare blearily at him. 

“Mortimer, you’re back,” she slurred, pushing wisps of hair away from her face. She glanced behind him to check the face of their grandfather clock. “And you’re quite late.”

He flushed, and tugged off the tie that suddenly felt like it was wrapping itself tighter around his neck. “I had a lot of paperwork to do.”

Charlotte pursed her lips, the starkness of the lie was apparent to both. Mortimer just was at a loss as to how to explain he was scrubbing away the presence of another alpha off and _out_ of him.

“You did have that new alpha patient today, didn’t you? How did that go?”

“It… went. Nothing out of the ordinary.” Mortimer waved her off and carried on walking through their sitting room. 

He flinched when he heard her bones creak as she stood, and the click of her heels as she followed after him.

“Really? It sounds like something happened to me. You reek of heat,” she paled at that, taking a step closer to which he stepped back, “did the alpha from today force himself on you?”

“Nothing happened, Charlotte. Don’t you trust me to tell you the truth?”

“That’s not fair,” she guffawed, “don’t play that card with me. You also do this when you get caught in a lie.”

“And what is it that I do, Charlotte?”

“You act like a complete ass and a coward; you also have the tendency to project your feelings on others to maintain the belief you are rational and right.”

“I am not an ass, I am merely tired and frustrated that you don’t believe me.”

“I can smell a lie a mile away, Mortimer, you know this. Stop lying to me and tell me the truth.” The starting of an alpha command laced her words, and Mortimer swallowed thickly.

“I already told you.”

“Mortimer, enough!” She seemed momentarily shocked by the harshness of her town before she recovered, graceful as ever. “How am I going to help you if you don’t tell me things and let you in?”

“You are not my alpha,” he hissed, turning on his heel and staring her down; despite her having a good few inches on him, she still shrank back. “Do not pretend you are when it suits you, and don’t you _ever_ use your alpha command on me.”

“I am not your alpha, you are right,” she said sadly, all the fight draining out of her, “but it is not for lack of trying.”

They stared at each other for a while, Mortimer sizing her up while Charlotte looked on with teary eyes. 

“You don’t have to tell me now, I can wait. But, please, talk to me. I miss you.” The unspoken ‘ _I miss us_ ’ hung heavy in the air.

“I think,” he started after a while, voice barely a wisp, “I should sleep in the guest room tonight.”

“That would be wise,” she returned hollowly.

The guest room, he’d find out later, was very lonely, cold, and lacked the familiar scent of rosewood.

 

\--

 

It was cowardly of him to rise and take his breakfast before Charlotte, but the nagging guilt that settle low in his gut kept him from doing so. He swallowed painfully around a sip of scalding tea, wallowing in his own self-pity as he glossed over the morning paper.

His eyes flicked over a brief article detailing the presence of a famous composer in London, breath coming out harsh as he saw the name. _Igor Stravinsky_. He’d remembered watching the man’s ballet—The Firebird—as a young boy; pressed in the uncomfortable cushions of seats and his mother’s breast, he had watched wide-eyed as Infernal Dance unfolded before him.

At the sound of Misia’s soft cough, he scrambled over himself to make himself scarce and fleeing the dining with as much dignity as he could muster. At the exasperated look she shot him, he couldn’t do much but smile sheepishly as he toed his shoes on and tugged his coat on. 

“With all due respect, sir,” she murmured, handing him his briefcase in exchange for the paper still clamped between his fingers, “you are a bit of a coward.”

He let out a sharp laugh. “Very omegan of me, isn’t it?” At the bland look on her face, he shook his head. “Goodbye Misia.”

“Sir.”

He nodded to her, thanked her again, and quickly wrenched the front door open and descended the neat steps to the cobblestone streets. He took off in the direction of the crowds towards upper London, watching with vague amusement as omegas tittered behind ornately decorated fans and their alpha’s broad backs.

“Do you think everyone is going to the rich quarters for the same reason?” Mortimer’s ears pricked at the sound of the conversation floating to him.

“Of course. Ever since Caroline told Louise who told Augusta who told _me_ that Stravinsky was coming to London, the upper class has been practically salivating to get a look at him.”

Mortimer’s blood froze in his veins. Surely he had heard them wrong.

“Ever since the disaster that was _Le Sacre du printemps_ everyone wants to meet him. I don’t blame them, I’d really like to ask him about why he even composed such a horrible thing.”

With an impressive amount of self-restraint, he managed to not snap at the girls at how The Rite of Spring was perhaps one of the most revolutionary pieces of the time, and also that her French sucked. He chose instead to smooth his hair out, settle his breathing, and take the scenic route to the office.

Lord knows he needed the time to think.

 

\--

 

It was blessedly quiet in the clinic, and he managed to slip by dozing patients and the engrossed nurses to his office to keep the peace just a little longer. He had barely settled into his office—coat off and hung, briefcase ajar and on his desk—before Madelaine slipped through his door and presented him with a neat file.

“Do I even want to know who it is this time?” He asked without so much as looking up from where he was signing the release forms for a patient.

“It’s not the alpha from yesterday, which, by the way, very nice job with your treatment.” The mock-praise dripping from her words had Mortimer tossing a pen at her. Judging by the indignant squawk she let out, it had found its mark. “Speaking of him,” she asked, smoothly taking the seat across from him, “he asked for an appointment next week. I had the pleasure of telling him hysteria treatments for alphas with omega practitioners are once a month.”

“How’d that work out?”

“He threatened to burn the place down.”

“That’s nice,” Mortimer muttered, gracing her with a glance to take the file from her hands. His eyes stopped at the name, and he almost choked. “Did you give me the wrong file?”

Madelaine let out a sigh, and he could hear the snick of a lighter and the acrid smell of smoke flood the room. Mortimer’s nose twitched, but he ignored it in favour of flipping through the file; the grim, tight lipped face staring back at him was definitely Stravinsky. 

“The real Stravinsky is coming to our humble clinic, Dr. Granville,” Madelaine took a drag, and exhaled slowly, “seems a bit like a dream, if I’m honest.”

The momentary shock that flooded him was shuttered away behind lock and key as Mortimer rose from his seat to grab his examination gown. It still smelled a bit like Jon, and it had his stomach burning with regret at how he’d let his biology take him over. Madelaine said nothing of his standing there with the coat pressed against his nose, choosing instead to flip through Stravinsky’s file.

“His wife died two years ago, and the symptoms of hysteria presented under ten months ago, exacerbated by the presence of his kids. He came to us on recommendation from a doctor in Russia; I heard a rumor that it was taboo to be hysteric as an alpha there.”

“Really?”

“London isn’t all that accepting either, or do you forget the months of fighting you did to get funding for your breeding sleeve?”

“I do remember, it is hard to forget the feeling of a dozen alpha’s pawing at you as they want you to spread your legs for money,” Mortimer grunted, slipping into his gown and buttoning it with shaky fingers.

“And they did that to a mated omega, I hate to think what would happen if you hadn’t been mated.”

He let out a nervous laugh at that. “I doubt I’d be here, probably bred like a prized pig and paraded around the upper districts.”

“There are worse things, you know,” Madelaine muttered, before stamping out her cigarette on the unused ashtray on the corner of his desk. “Worse things like the fact that I have to get back to work.”

“You get paid,” he called after he, “and quite well at that.”

“I still rather be sitting on a gilded couch with my feet up eating bonbons.”

“You and every other Londoner.”

“But I’m a pretty one, I should have priority.”

 

\--

 

The clamor that filled the clinic when it was announced Stravinsky had arrived had Mortimer almost tripping over himself to make it to the examination room, perfecting every inch of it himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the night crew’s ability to clean, but the fact that they were betas meant that their sense of smell was a fraction to an omega or alpha’s. 

He was just wiping down the bench for the umpteenth time when he heard the door crack open, and was immediately hit with the thick, heady scent of an alpha in rut. Mortimer looked up in time to catch the sight of Stravinsky none-too-kindly dismissing a dour-faced Maria. She went silently though, and even had the good nature to softly close the door behind her.

Mortimer straightened up, and frowned at the man. He looked even more severe in person, both imposing height and broadness and an equally striking face. He had plush lips with a well-kept moustached—greased as well, judging by the faint shimmer—that led up to sharp cheekbones and spectacles that added a regality to his odd features. Surprisingly, though, Mortimer didn’t find it off-putting. 

Stravinsky said nothing, merely watched him with blank eyes as he rubbed his hands on his gown and extended one to him. “Bonjour, mon nom est médecin Granville. Je sais déjà qui vous êtes et c'est un grand honneur de vous rencontrer monsieur Stravinsky.”

Igor took his hand and shook it mechanically before releasing it as if he had been burned. 

“Votre français est horrible,” Igor muttered, lips curling in distaste, “luckily I speak English.”

Mortimer blinked at him, jaw struggling to keep from dropping. “Right, uh, thanks. Take a seat on the bench and we can get started.”

Stravinsky sniffed, but took a seat on the bench.

“I’ve read your file, and I’d just like to know how far along you are in your rut.”

“Far enough that I have had to come see you, omega.” Mortimer suppressed the urge to grind his teeth into dust, choosing instead to curl his fingers into a fist. 

“I’d be a little nicer to the man who is going to help you.”

“You are no man, you are a bitch; an unmated one at that. I wonder, would the medical licensing boards agree with using your body for treating alphas?”

“I—Excuse me?” Mortimer flustered. _Seriously_ , he thought, _two for two?_ “I do not use my bodies to treat alphas. How dare you even insinuate—“

“It isn’t an accusation. It is the truth, thoroughbred alphas have a good sense of smell.”

“I think it was a mistake for you to come here; I am going to recommend you to another clinic in Britain, so I hope you didn’t unpack,” he sneered.

Igor’s face remained in its infuriating blankness before it morphed into something much more sinister; his lips had curled back to reveal the cruel snarl of his teeth, eyes blazing with an anger that threatened to burn him to a crisp, and nostrils flaring. 

Mortimer stepped back and pressed against the exam room’s desk, in that moment forgetting who he was in the face of being an omega who had wronged their potential— _no_ , not potential anymore if the scent rolling off him and flooding Mortimer’s nose was any indication—mate. 

Stravinsky removed his glasses with a shaking hand, mouth gaped and sucking it great heaving breaths—Mortimer almost feared he would keel over at any minute from respiratory alkalosis. 

“Come here,” Stravinsky’s voice was low and guttural, sounding more animal than man. “ _Now._ ”

He tripped over himself to go to Stravinsky, all the while chiding himself for the breaking so easily a second time. He dimly hoped he wouldn’t make this a habit.

“Get down on your knees.” 

He dropped, legs boneless and useless, prostrating himself before the man. Stravinsky used the tip of his boot to press his chin up to raise Mortimer’s eyes to his, and he feels punch-drunk at the sight. Stravinsky looks a lot like a king attending court from where he’s seated, haughty and proud, on the bench.

A moment passed between them, barely the space of a heartbeat, and Stravinsky nodded, moving the tip of his boot up to Mortimer’s lips and pressing ever so slightly on the seam.

Mortimer gasped, and Stravinsky used that opening to press inside. Mortimer jerked at that, unsure of what to do. The rich taste of earth, chemicals used to clean leather, and a distinctly sour _London_ taste sat on the tip of his tongue. 

“Good boy.”

The rush of heat, shame, and want that flooded him had him doubling over, gagging as the movement forced the boot deeper into his mouth. Above him Stravinsky was silent, save for the thunderous breaths he took, and it unsettling how calm and in control he seemed in this moment.

Mortimer pressed the heel of his palm against his groin, and moaned around the thick leather between his lips. Stravinsky snapped out of whatever the fuck had taken over him and gently eased the boot out between Mortimer’s teeth.

Mortimer kept himself curled over, eyes unfocused as he heard the sound of a belt coming undone. Stravinsky let out a soft grunt, Mortimer almost thought he imagined it, and clucked his tongue.

He whipped his head up at that, mouth working soundlessly at the presented cock. Stravinsky had himself gripped at the base, wagging the impressively thick cock before him; despite himself, he felt drool pool and spill over his parted lower lip and a low whine start to build.

With a practiced ease, Stravinsky pulled back the foreskin to reveal a glistening head, one that looked so soft and inviting that he was rising up and swaying forward to capture it between his lips. Stravinsky placed a firm hand on his forehead, holding him just out of reach of it, and his lips pulled into a poor imitation of a smile, the first positive thing Mortimer had seen on him.

“Please,” Mortimer wailed, startled at how foreign and desperate he sounded to his own ears, “I need it.”

Stravinsky obliged, trailing the tip over his lips and smearing precum along them. He felt himself blush deeper at that, the movement mirrored when he was a young man again, rouging his lips to meet an alpha. His tongue snaked out, barely dipping into the slit before Stravinsky was tugging him back and snarling like a cornered animal. 

Mortimer licked his lips, collecting the traces of precum there, and sighed at the taste. It was bitter and salty enough to remind Mortimer of the imported chocolates Charlotte had given him the night of their wedding. 

_Charlotte._

A cold spike of fear hit him at that, and he reeled back as far as Stravinsky’s iron grip would allow. There was a flash of clarity in Stravinsky’s glassy eyes, as if he understood the hesitancy in Mortimer, before he tugged him back and slowly fed his cock into Mortimer’s parted lips; he didn’t stop until Mortimer’s nose was nestled in the curls at the base and the start of a knot, the scent of the alpha’s musk—spiced and aroused, all for him—had the doubt in him melting away into a purely omegan desire to please.

Stravinsky dug the heel of his boot into the dip of Mortimer’s spine, and Mortimer quickly crossed his hands behind his back. Stravinsky let out a pleased rumble in response, and he all but preened before setting himself to the task at hand.

Tongue pressed flat against the underside of Stravinsky’s dick, Mortimer slowly eased up and hollowed his cheeks. His vision went double as he crossed his eyes to watch the spit-slicked length appear before him like magic. The grip in his hair disappeared completely—as Stravinsky decided he was obedient enough to not need pain to keep him going—and used his now free hand to run through his still perfectly groomed hair.

There was no indication he was even in his rut beside the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the knot thickening against his lips. Mortimer was envious of the subtlety of it, knowing just how fucking debauched he looked in that moment. He steeled himself before pressing down and relaxing his throat. 

Stravinsky’s tip hit the back of his throat, and he could feel a gag building, but shut his eyes swallowed through it. Stravinsky choked in response, and he added that as a victory in his head, before sucking back up until only the tip hung between his lips.

Stravinsky nodded sharply, and Mortimer took that as all the motivation he needed to set a slow and deep rhythm of bobbing. Each downstroke had the knot pressing his lips wider and wider apart until they strained painfully to hold the knot. He winced when Stravinsky thrust his hips up into him, and the hands returned to the back of his head to hold him in place. 

His medical knowledge knew Stravinsky had put him in one of the traditional omegan appealing positions, where the sense of security and peace of having the alpha to control the pace and depth were supposed to create a pliant and open omega. _The perfect wet hole to fuck._

Mortimer teased his teeth at that, overcome with shame at how it had slick rushing out to cover the backs of his thighs and soak the seat of his pants, and Stravinsky jerked into him, jamming Mortimer’s nose into the soft pudge of his lower belly. He gagged then, throat working to force the foreign thing _out_ , before Stravinsky pumped his hips once more and shot down his throat. 

He refused to swallow—mostly out of shock of still having the air supply cut off—and his lungs burned. Stravinsky pressed calloused fingers to his throat and massaged gently, forcing him to swallow around him. His cum burnt a hot trail down his throat, and settled like a physical weight in his belly. 

Stravinsky eased himself out without so much as a ‘thank you’, and jerked himself with quick, harsh twists until he was cumming over Mortimer’s sweaty, red face. 

He looked down at his work, looking vaguely pleased with the imagine Mortimer painted between his knees. “

“You are a vision like this,” Igor murmured, eyes trailing across his face; it almost seemed like he was trying to dedicate it to memory.

“Uh,” Mortimer said smartly, grimacing at the roughness of his voice. Igor merely shook his head in response, and Mortimer shut his mouth.

Stravinsky didn’t even cast him a second glance as he carefully swung a leg over Mortimer’s head and maneuvered off the side of the bench—pants undone and cock still wet and hard against the exposed bit of skin from where his shirt had ridden up. He watched dumbly all the while, brain still fried and mushy in his skull, as Igor smoothed over his exertion-rumpled clothes and gently tucked his cock back into his pants before leaning down to pat a hand against his cum-soaked cheek.

He hesitated ever-so-slightly, hand pressed against the side of his face and thumb over the top of his cheekbone. A bit of warmth crept into his eyes and there was a feather-light brush of his thumb against Mortimer’s cheekbone; the warmth disappeared as quickly as it had appeared at the feeling of Mortimer leaning into the touch, and he withdrew the touch to scowl and swipe his now filthy hand on his tweed wool pants.

He straightened up, and turned on his heel and moved like a man possessed to the door. It was all a little over-dramatic to Mortimer, who still was on his knees watching like a deer in headlights, as Igor acted as if _he_ was the one running from something.

He faltered, once more, at the door, hand poised over the knob; he saw the exact moment he won whatever inner battle he was having at how his back tense up and he turned back to Mortimer. 

“I take back what I said,” he intoned, the cruelness was back and it almost gave him whiplash to bear witness to, “you are a fabulous doctor.”


End file.
